The Second Winter, page 16
15.
Oskar’s forehead rested against the cold window. Outside the train, the landscape passed in a blur. The satchel was on his lap. A fine layer of dirt from the barn floor still covered the soft suitcase. Before leaving the house, Oskar had wiped the leather with a wet towel, but not thoroughly enough to remove the soil from the grain. The dried mud darkened his fingertips. His trouser legs were stained with it. You can spend the night at Fru Gregersen’s house, Fredrik had told him. She won’t be expecting you, but she won’t turn you away. It’s Christmas. Tell her that you bring holiday greetings from her son. She won’t be too happy to hear from me, I don’t imagine, and she won’t know what to make of you, but no, she won’t turn you away. Oskar had taken his dress clothes from his closet. The shirt was wrinkled, but at least he could wear it. His feet barely fit into his old shoes. The trousers, though, were too short by inches, so he hadn’t changed from the pair he had been wearing. Noticing the dirt on his thighs, Oskar brushed the rough fabric with his fingers. Then he rested his forehead on the glass again. When the train crossed a bridge, the water underneath was so gray that it became part of the sky. The wheels rolled over the tresses with a hollow roar.
The train slowed as they approached the ferry terminal at Nyborg. In Odense, most of the passengers had disembarked, and the carriage was nearly empty. A man riding alone sat facing him a few benches away, partially hidden behind a seatback. The only other people on board this car were a married couple across the aisle, dressed for Christmas, carrying a few wrapped packages in addition to their suitcases. The husband was worrying about the time, his wife was concerned about their children. They must have been wealthy, because the war didn’t figure into their conversation at all. Oskar was only half listening. The flat farmland outside the train was lulling him to sleep.
And, too, he was distracted by the other lone passenger. Wasn’t this the same man whom he had seen at the station in Aalborg? Oskar couldn’t be sure, because he had only been vaguely conscious of him then, and he wasn’t able to get a good look at him now. But Oskar remembered the fedora — the way this man wore it low on his forehead. There was nothing unusual about two men traveling to Copenhagen on the same train. Still, Oskar was aware of him. His eyes settled on the man’s polished shoes, just visible under the seat. His trouser legs were folded into heavy cuffs. Beneath the wool, his shoes glistened. The dim light spilling into the carriage through the rain-dappled windows beaded on the lacquered leather like water. The laces were fastened into tight, precise bows.
When the conductor strolled past to announce their arrival into the harbor at Nyborg, Oskar decided to stand early and move to another car where there were more people. His palms were sweaty. The satchel had become a dead weight. At the top of the carriage, he looked back down the aisle and was reassured to see that the man in the hat was still in his seat, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Oskar caught a fleeting glimpse of his profile. He had lit a cigarette, and it rested in the limp grip of his fingers beneath a plume of smoke. Oskar passed into the next carriage, joined a group of passengers gathered in front of the door.
On board the ferry, he ducked into a restroom and bolted the lock behind him. His palms wouldn’t stop sweating. It was hot, but that wasn’t why. His hands were shaking, too. Oskar was determined not to disappoint his father. He set the satchel down at his feet, turned on the tap. Cold water spewed from the faucet with a sulfuric smell. He lathered his hands with a greasy bar of soap, washed his face. The grime from the satchel dripped into the sink, slid down the drain. In the mirror, his skin appeared green. His face looked stressed. He held his hands in front of him until they stopped quivering, then dried them with a dirty towel.
Voices passed the bathroom door, footsteps. Rather than rejoin the other passengers, Oskar entered the stall, shut the lid and took a seat on the toilet. He rested his head in his hands, closed his eyes. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. The hull of the huge steel ferry lifted and fell. The engine growled. The air was tinged with diesel.
THE FAMILY GREGERSEN
16.
Charlottenlund. December 25, 1941.
It was already after eight o’clock by the time Oskar reached the front gates of the Gregersen home in Charlottenlund. He had come to visit his grandmother before, but years ago. He had only a vague recollection of the estate on the coast a few miles north of Copenhagen — an incomplete image of a white plaster villa with striped yellow awnings, set back behind a wrought-iron fence on a bluff overlooking the Øresund. He remembered running as fast as he could across a lush green lawn, reaching the street, crossing blindly, then charging down the path to the beach. Even in summer, the seawater had been as cold as ice. He gazed at the house now, one hand resting on the painted metal railing. Across the manicured gardens, it loomed in the shadows with the grandeur of a palace. Had his father really grown up here?
The grounds were quiet. The windows were dark. Perhaps Christmas dinner was being held somewhere else. Perhaps the family had closed this house for the winter. He could return to the center of the city. It wasn’t far, he could get a room at a cheap hotel — And then an orange glimmer lit the surface of a window. Oskar tracked the movement, focused on a fine, bright line of light. The windows were blacked out with heavy curtains, that was all. In the calm after a car passed, music trickled across the lawn, faint laughter. And then, too, he smelled the aromatic scent of burning wood. Making up his mind, he hoisted the satchel over the gates, then clambered over after it. His shoes landed on the crushed granite path with a scrape.
At the front door, he hesitated one more time. He tried to remember his grandmother, but all he could recall was an old woman with powdery skin and silver hair, rheumy blue eyes half hidden behind the tired folds of her eyelids. Her hands had been as velvety as rabbit fur. Inside the house, a child’s shout bounced off the walls. Glasses clinked — someone was making a toast. Oskar’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Screwing up his courage, he found the chime, gave it a firm tug. Behind the heavy door, the bell resonated across the foyer. He waited, then pulled the rod a second time.
Next to the door, a curtain was lifted to one side. Oskar peered back through the window at a man who reminded him of his father, though he was darker and heavier. The thick lead glass distorted the man’s features, and only a sliver of his face was visible. But Oskar recognized his uncle. “Who is it? What do you want?”
“It’s me, Uncle Ludvig,” Oskar said. “Oskar. Fredrik’s son.”
“Fredrik’s son,” Ludvig repeated. He licked his lips as if he had tasted something foul. His one visible eye, though, widened and softened. He fooled with the locks, pulled open the door, stopped it short with his foot. “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Oskar reassured him. “I came by myself.”
Ludvig examined him through the gap, then pulled the door open the rest of the way. Behind him, a small group had gathered at the mouth of the grand foyer. Oskar spotted his eldest cousin, Ralf, who was now twenty-two, Ralf’s brother, Wilhelm, who was fourteen, and their sister, Lise, the youngest at thirteen. Next to them were a few cousins from another side of the family, whose names Oskar didn’t know. “But we’re not expecting you,” Ludvig asked, “are we?”
Oskar didn’t respond. His attention was drawn to the faces staring back at him.
Ludvig rested a hand on his shoulder. The affectionate touch surprised him. Fredrik’s stories always described a cold and nasty man. “You’ve grown since the last time I’ve seen you. But it’s been years, hasn’t it?”
“Seven years,” Oskar said.
“Yes — seven years. Well, come inside. Look, we’re having a party here — it’s Christmas — we’re having Christmas dinner. There’s plenty of food, that’s for sure, and there’s room at the table.”
Oskar followed his uncle across the marble floor. His face flushed as he stepped into the salon. The family was throwing its own little gala. Flames caressed the bricks of a massive hearth, candles glowed. A woman wearing a gown was seated in front of an ebony piano, another beside a harp. A man in a tuxedo was holding a violin by its neck, as if he had bagged a goose. Oskar took in just how well-dressed everyone was. He had never felt more like a bumpkin.
“Where are you coming from today?” Ludvig asked. “All the way from Jutland?”
“Yes.”
“And by yourself — you must be tired. Maybe you want to clean up a little, before you come to dinner —”
Anything, Oskar thought, to get away from this crowd.
“You’ll be staying the night, I’m sure,” Ludvig continued. “I’ll show you to a room upstairs. But first you’ll want to see your grandmother. She doesn’t much like surprises, Mama doesn’t. But this one will probably please her.” As Ludvig led him into the center of the gathering, voices dropped, until — when they were standing in front of Fru Gregersen, who was seated like a queen on a divan, one hand in her lap, the other resting on a gilded armrest — the entire party had fallen still. The rough soles of Oskar’s filthy, silly shoes scuffed the polished floor, and his footsteps alone, not his uncle’s, echoed off the walls of the opulent gallery. Fabric rustled as people turned. The smooth swish of silk and the brittle crumpling of starched cotton swept through the room like a breaking wave.
Fru Gregersen had been speaking to a middle-aged woman seated next to her, and she wasn’t accustomed to having her conversation interrupted. Her face concealed her displeasure. “You must be Fredrik’s eldest,” she said, even before the introduction was made.
Ludvig gave Oskar’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Your mind is sharper than mine, Mama.”
Fru Gregersen frowned. “The resemblance is unmistakable. At first I thought I was looking at my son.”
“He came all the way from Jutland today, Mama,” Ludvig told her. “By himself.”
“Who are you?” Fru Gregersen demanded, reaching out abruptly to grab Oskar’s dirty sleeve. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“My name is Oskar, ma’am.”
“Oskar — so it is — Oskar. I remember now. You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Oskar?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And so polite!” Fru Gregersen gave his sleeve a shake, then let it go. “And you came all this way just to wish me a good Christmas, I suppose? Or did that worthless son of mine send you here?” She clucked her tongue. “What does he want this time? He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Ma’am?” When Oskar glanced at Ludvig, his uncle offered him an uncomfortable smile, nothing more. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Oskar said, and when he spoke, a couple of the younger girls giggled and his face turned red. He had no doubt that his accent was funny to them. It sounded rough even to him, against the proper Danish his grandmother and uncle were speaking. “I only need a place to spend the night.” He was stammering. “I didn’t mean to ask anything of you, I mean, I only thought I might be able to spend the night here.”
“You can tell him,” Fru Gregersen continued, “that he won’t see another crown, not in my lifetime, not from me. That — that woman — your mother, yes, that’s what she was, I suppose, your mother — she emptied his pockets. Did you know that?” A few of the guests exchanged glances. Next to Oskar, Ludvig cleared his throat. “Of course this was what we expected. She was a social climber, that’s what she was. We tried to warn him, but Fredrik always had a mind of his own. He could never see past a pretty face —”
“Mama,” Ludvig cut in at last, “I’m sure Oskar doesn’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Fru Gregersen gave her son a stern look, then returned her attention to Oskar. “Well,” she said, dabbing the edges of her mouth with a perfumed handkerchief, “sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. And I do suppose that Ludvig is correct. There is no reason to visit the sins of the father upon a blameless child. Of course you can spend the night here. Of course — there is no question.” She looked around the room. “Where is Ralf?” She raised her voice. “Ralf?”
“Yes, Farmor,” Ralf said, addressing his grandmother in the traditional manner. He took a step forward, distinguished himself from the rest of the guests. His complexion was so clean, Oskar noticed, that it reflected the light. “I’m right here.”
“Ralf is your age,” Fru Gregersen said.
Oskar read Ralf’s unease. At twenty-two, he was a full four years older than his cousin from the country. The last thing Ralf wanted was to be tossed into the same box with him.
“I am sure that the two of you will have much to talk about. You used to play outside here together, you know.”
“I remember.”
“But that was a long time ago. When you were little children. Anyway, I am glad that you can be here. Why don’t you take a glass of wine, hmmm?” She twisted, stiffly, to look up at her eldest son again. “We can still afford to offer someone an extra glass of wine, can’t we, Ludvig?” she asked him, as if continuing a conversation they had been having before. “You will allow me to lavish this extravagance on the boy, won’t you?”
“Mama, please,” Ludvig protested. “I never said — I only meant —”
“You know how thrifty you’ve become, Ludvig. Anyone would think we’re destitute. What happened to all the provisions your father made for me?”
The room had grown even more quiet. Ludvig straightened his vest over his ample stomach with a couple of sharp tugs. “Now might not be the best time for this discussion, don’t you think so, too, Mama?”
Fru Gregersen continued to gaze at him, then turned, abruptly, to face Oskar one more time. “Why don’t you join the party and meet your cousins?” she said. “And make sure someone does find you a glass of wine. Now where is the music? What happened to the music? I was enjoying the piano.”
The violinist slipped his instrument beneath his chin. The woman at the piano flipped a page in her folio. The music started. Then, slowly, one by one, the guests began to whisper to one another, then to speak, and once again the room was filled with voices and the sounds of a family celebrating Christmas behind windows sealed with velvet.
“My name is Lise,” a tiny voice said.
Walking next to his uncle back into the front hall, Oskar slowed to greet the fine-boned girl who had approached him. Before he could speak, though, Ludvig barked at her. “You leave your cousin be, darling. There’ll be time for an introduction later. Right now, I’m taking him upstairs.”
“I can show him, Papa,” Lise said. She placed herself in front of her father, forcing him to stop.
“That won’t be necessary,” Ludvig responded, too quickly. “You can say hello when he’s had a chance to clean up.”
Oskar smiled at his young cousin. “It’s good to see you again. I remember you from when you were a baby.”
“I don’t remember you at all,” Lise said.
Dismissing his daughter with a frown, Ludvig grabbed Oskar by the biceps, hustled him out of the room as if he might be contagious. The front hall was lit by an oversize chandelier suspended from the double-height ceiling. “It weighs over a ton,” Ludvig said, noticing Oskar glance up at it. “It’s more than two hundred years old, from a palace in Holland, I’m told. Your father went to the same school I did. Krebs School, perhaps you have heard of it? Our father attended the school, and now Ralf has graduated from Krebs as well. We all of us received the very same education. But can you believe that when your father was a boy he used to place a chair underneath that chandelier in the middle of the night, stretch up onto his toes, and steal the crystals? Not to sell them — though he might well have tried that first — just to skip them into the sea.” As Oskar followed his uncle onto the wide marble staircase, his feet remembered this same Oriental runner from years before, plush through the soles of his shoes. “He was pretty good at it, too.” Ludvig allowed himself to chuckle. “The pieces of glass were perfectly flat, you see? They leaped across the water like sparks. Myself, I was never brave — or wanton — enough to try.”
On the second floor, Ludvig directed him down a long, spacious hallway to a bedroom facing the street. The room hadn’t been made up yet, and it was cold inside. His uncle flipped the light switch, double-checked that the curtains were drawn tight, then showed Oskar to the washroom. “I’ll send someone up to light the fire. In the meantime, I think you’ll find everything you need. I would offer you a change of clothes from Ralf or Wilhelm or one of the other cousins. But I don’t think there’s anyone else as tall as you. Not by ten centimeters. And I’m too fat.”
Oskar shrugged.
“Anyway, make yourself at home. Wash your face, perhaps, then come downstairs and get something to eat.” Ludvig was letting himself out of the room, when he decided that he had more to say. “Right now, we only have family downstairs. But we’re planning to have some guests stop by after dinner, beginning at ten. At that point, children will be asked to go upstairs. Adults only.”
“I understand,” Oskar said.
Ludvig forced a smile. “Well, then. I’ll see you downstairs shortly.”
Oskar waited for his uncle to leave. Then he walked to the center of the room and turned slowly around, all the way in a full circle.
At nine thirty, the men detached themselves from the party and followed Ludvig into the library. The doors were left open, and masculine voices rumbled through the house, indistinct by the time they reached the dining room. Fru Gregersen remained at the table, lingering over dessert. She hadn’t touched the cake or rice pudding, but she had a taste for bitter coffee and sweet wine. So the rest of the women stayed with her, sipping from smudged glasses. Oskar knew enough not to follow Ralf into the library. His cousin would fit in with the men well enough. Oskar didn’t look as if he belonged in this house at all, not even as a servant. Instead, he let Lise drag him away from the table, back into the main salon.
